


i found you in words

by gon



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M, POV Second Person, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gon/pseuds/gon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Amy sees it, the Doctor sees it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i found you in words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hewasreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hewasreal/gifts).



> Until i met her, I was all alone in this world.  
> I had not a soul with whom to share the scenery before my eyes.  
> \- Sanetoshi Watase (Mawaru Penguindrum)
> 
> Gifting this to Margot (hewasreal) because she is highly responsible for its completion. Thank you for the support, you're amazing!
> 
> This is set along Series 5 but it does diverge from canon.

**Until i met her, I was all alone in this world.**   
**I had not a soul with whom to share the scenery before my eyes.**

 

* * *

 

 **1.**  
  
You said he gave you the stars all those years ago, the night he told you that there was a galaxy for every hair on your head. Your backs were pressed flat on the plush summer grass and there was a seam in the sky with your name on it. You pulled on a thread and the high heavens came pouring out, wrapping you up in their splendor.

 

 **2.**  
  
In the year 9204, a fortress is erected in your name.  
  
You wind through crowds in narrow, busy streets to congregate with priests who will bless this city as holy. They will recite ancient prayers older than sin to grace their realm with prosperity, peace, and longevity. There are masses of onlookers; those come to sanctify their new lands, and to praise their new gods.

* * *

"We shouldn't be here," the Doctor whispers under his breath, turning back in the direction of the TARDIS and pulling at your stubborn fingers.

But now you're even more intrigued. You slip away and jog toward a villager, smiling gaily. She's got a hand supporting her lower back, and another around a sleeping infant at her hip.

"Ma'am, my friend and I aren't from around here. Is there something special going on?" She's beaming and you can't help but catch her contagious smile.

"You must be from far off, dear. We are celebrating our new city." She turns and smiles back  
at you, a warm smile that reminds you of your mother. Well, your idea of what your mother would have been like.

" _New_ city?" you ask. "What happened to the old one?"

"My, my, my, child." and the woman chuckles. "Where are you _from_?"

There are children running through the streets and rich, fragrant aromas drift through the air. An elderly man hobbles by with a woven basket of what look like the reddest apples you've ever seen. Your stomach reminds you of the fact that you haven't eaten in at least ten hours, and while deciding whether or not to tap the old guy on the shoulder, he catches your eye and tosses you an apple. After giving your earnest thanks (and after your stomach gives its own gratitude in the form of an audible growl), you go back to speaking to the woman.

"Uh…." You feel an arm around your waist and it's the Doctor, come to drag you away.

"Hello, I'm the Doctor," he kisses her on the cheek. "And we've really got to _go_." He grabs the apple and takes a loud, crunchy, bite.

You find yourself being pulled by the sleeve of your coat, and curse yourself for not being able to wriggle out to mutter a simple "thank you" to the kind woman.

* * *

"Aren't you going to ask me," and he mocks your voice in the _most_ annoying way. "What did you do that for?"

You walk into the TARDIS still clutching the bitten apple, not really thinking about your hunger anymore.

You know him by now. Better than he knows himself, even. "I know why you did it, Doctor." And he's silent, just standing by the console and checking screens. But he's listening, he's always listening.

This particular game isn't one that strikes your fancy, so without a reply from the Doctor, you repeat one of his favorite warnings: "Don't muddle in events that directly affect your own timeline." And you really can't help it that the next look on his face is the exact one you expected, or that it gives you a haughty sense of self-satisfaction.

He walks over to you, moving his legs as if wading through knee-deep snow, and places a kiss on your forehead. It's quick and it surprises you, and you'd never admit it but the spot burns white hot.

You place two fingers over your head and this is no different than all the other forehead kisses, _of course it isn't, Amy_.

"Why?" That's all you can say. Why. Why. _Why?_

He pokes you in the nose and whispers (much too close to your face, I might add), "Because you are…" and he can't even find the words for a moment, which, take a picture, this does not happen often. "You are brilliant. And because you are _you_." (And because you think you're going to be sick.)

"You're not going to _tell me_ how that _extraordinary_ celebration back there could _possibly_ affect me, are you?"

"Not a chance!"

And with the pull of a lever, you're off again. Next stop, everywhere. The world falls out from under your feet and rearranges its scenery in ways so breathtaking that you are convinced it was all done just for you.

It was.

 

**3.**

Hours later you find yourselves drifting through space dust, your long legs hanging out of the TARDIS. His arms are around your shoulders and yours are around his waist; your head is against his chest. Below there's the universe; a tapestry woven with stars. Staring straight down is dizzying, and you can see the framework of existence stretching out into oblivion.

It's a bit overwhelming, to be honest.

The Doctor urges your head up, wants total eye contact when he asks, "What do you see down there?"

"Looks like eternity." It does. It's like sparkling diamonds on velvet. It's even hard to wrap one's mind around, that there are unfathomable worlds glittering in every direction. The mere thought demands to be well, _thought_. All those planets and swirls of gas squeeze themselves into your mind until you feel need to lie back out of mental fatigue.

The Doctor glances down once more, tilts his head, and replies, "Nah. Eternity is much emptier. No, no _this_ , this is _much_ better. This is the cosmos painted out, living and dying all at the same time." He kisses the palm of your hand and there's a single tear running down his cheek. "You are seven hundred _million_ miles from home." And he says each word like it's its own sentence, and his cadence is deliberately rhythmic in the way that you always know he means more than he says.

You allow yourself to become consumed by the grandiosity of it all, to become absorbed in the cinematic-like spectacle that is too good to be true, and the man next to you that is too fiction to be fact. Things melt away and all you can hear are two hearts, two hearts, _two hearts and why does this matter so much?_

"I _am_ home."

After a while you eat the apple from earlier, still bright and juicy-looking, with not a hint of oxidation.

 

**4.**

Where the Doctor's mouth lies, his body does not.

It starts with hand holding, with "Come along, Pond" morphing from an invitation, to something else altogether. It's an inside joke, a persuasion tactic, and a desperate plea all at once. And when he tangles his fingers up in your hair and kisses your fingers, well be damned, you can even call it a bloody seduction method.

"Gotcha" is a heartfelt promise. He places a finger on your nose and traces it back to his, as if measuring your physical proximity in a word and a gesture. His exuberance turns his face red and suddenly so is yours. Ah yes, he's "got you" and the thought makes your blood boil in ways you don't want to talk about.

When you're in your room with a handful of hours (or millennia) between now and your wedding day, it seems there's no mistaking what is and isn't a signal. You've made a checklist and yes, you're pretty sure he's an intergalactic playboy. But, if he is as old as he says he is then it may have been a while, so you deign to make the first move.

His hands grasp your shoulders but he's noticeably resistant, not to your advances but to his own desires. Still, he's kissing you back, with deft tongue action (yep, _definitely_ intergalactic playboy), and after a while it feels like his hold on your shoulders will sear through you and into your bones. Your hands are pressed to his chest and while he's still fighting you (you're winning), his hearts are pumping like he's at a loss for blood. Even a quick peek downward would confirm that suspicion.

He gathers his strength (or stupidity, you haven't decided) and eases you away, insists that he isn't the one that you want. But he is, he _is_ the one that you want. You don't even know it yet.

And all of the kisses you give after that one will be lackluster, for you will always be searching for a second heartbeat.

 

**5.**

He pushes you into Rory's arms, like you belong to him, to anyone. But you run to him anyway and you don't even know why. Well, yes you do. You run into Rory's arms because they're always open and warm and because you're always cold. _And that's basic human instinct, isn't it?_

But Rory always squeezes too tight, and it's overwhelming.

"We're running in different directions," you whisper to him after one cold night.

"I know."

And that's the end of it for a while, until the Doctor tries to patch you back up, like you're broken. Like this isn't the greatest that you've felt in a long, long, time. Like you're empty or something. _What's wrong with being empty?_

"I know just the thing," the Doctor insists.

"Don't say Rory. Don't you dare!"

"Amy," he sighs out breathily—it's almost obscenely sensual. " _Run_ with me."

 

 **6.**  

Every direction is forward. The last gaseous burn of the sun was yesterday and the birth of the universe is tomorrow. There is nothing and there is _everything_. The totality of it all blinds you and inks stars onto the inside of your eyelids. You cannot imagine that anything could be as beautiful as this.

When you jump into his arms this time they catch and swing. You become giggles and hushed whispers in dimly lit streets.

You're intoxicated by the beauty (and the wine) of this city and you move to whisper in the Doctor's ear. He turns his head and your lips meet instead.

You find each other in the dark and he kisses you over and over _and over._

**7.**

You said he gave you the stars all those years ago, the night he told you that there was a galaxy for every hair on your head, and you were introduced to the wonders (both terrestrial and extra-terrestrial) once kept out of your reach.

Things haven't been the same since.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look at me.


End file.
